The tapping stopped. Myself looked over the edge of the monitor. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Be sensible. Why are you bothering? The more you write, the more fucked up it gets. Every sentence means more research." I ticked off the points on my fingers. "The Gold Rush, the Presidio, Mexican food and culture, race relations, continental politics, gender politics, clothing, native cultures, weather, geology, submarine mechanics, the Suffragette movement, slavery. San Francisco, you know, the city you know bupkus about?"

Myself grimaced at the reminder of the bumpy road ahead. "Right now I'm getting the character arcs and overall story. Research comes later."

"Yeah, yeah, first drafts are allowed to suck. You hear it from everyone on Twitter and then some," I said, waving away her argument. "I think you're afraid to admit you've bitten off more than you can chew."

You aren't a disappointment. You are super great, and if people get down on you for not being perfect all the time then bite their faces off. You are super great, and faces are high in protein. All views and opinions expressed by me are my own and super great. Super. Great.